The Lady
by MorriganFearn
Summary: Maybe it was because she had mistaken him for an angel. Maybe it was because he was a devil. Antonio remained by Juana's side through years of imprisonment in the dark.


I started this way back when. I had just finished _Sunlight Burning_, and wanted to examine the Hapsburg union with Spain's royal family, and do a little more with bringing historical figures into my Hetalia machinations. Well, Phillip I of Flanders was just about as bastardy as you could get. He had just about _all_ of the vices that we associate with corrupt authority figures. He abused his wife, Juana of Castile, who may or may not have been mad to begin with, but by the third year of their reign was generally considered in court to be completely off her rocker. His numerous affairs were well documented, and when he and Juana had a son he took that son away from her to be raised in the Netherlands far from her deranging influence and coincidentally, when his son came to power he continued the abuse that his father had wrought on his mother. Not to mention, Philip had a tendency to abandon his soldiers to die ignoble deaths.

Unfortunately, her father, Ferdinand, wasn't any better, and he loathed Phillip's Hapsburg origins, so he sought to use his daughter's claim to the throne of Castile, her mother's lands that he could not inherit after Isabella's death, to get full rule of Aragon, Castile, and Leon. He wasn't well liked in Castile, but after Philip died, he managed to usurp the rule, even though Juana tried to rule on her own. Ferdinand had her confined to an abbey, which was very similar to what Juana's husband had done to her as well. When Ferdinand died, Juana's rule was usurped again by her son, who had been sent away to the Lowlands, Charles, and he kept up the practices of confinement that both her husband and father had used on her.

Popular opinion often was for Juana to reign as Queen, supposedly because the people resented the foreign men exercising their powers over their lives, and Juana made a good impression for being modest and loyal to a shitty husband. She has proved great material as a tragic heroine for writers, artists, and playwrights, so I suppose I am merely adding onto all of that. How true her story is after all the fictional distortion is up for debate.

Anyway, with all of this charming historical background to draw upon, this little fic turned into more of a meditation on how things worked for nations before the concept of nationhood rolled around.

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><p><strong>The Lady<strong>

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><p><strong>1498<strong>

Prayer rattled on her senses. It was already night in this dark airless cupboard. The black cloaked them, draping her world in velvety folds. There the devil lurked. The devil would be handsome as any man. He would glow brightly like the sun, his hair would blaze, crowning him in false glory. Here the devil lurked. As he lurked outside, sleeping with the women who caught his fancy, throwing her in closets when she misbehaved. So she prayed. Prayed to the Virgin, prayed to God. Prayed for something that would save her from the dark and its dread prince.

Something in the musty darkness made a soft sighing sound. The woman turned, confused and terrified. Her only recourse was holding the folds of cloth all around her, desperately trying to cover herself from the eyes that watched.

"Who is there?"

Maybe the cruel laughter was right about her. Maybe she really was having fits.

The sighing again, and then the darkness opened up all around her. For a moment, she was the fields and the rich soil stretching for the horizon under the lovey stars. She was the mountains rearing to heaven. She was the sea, with the slap and dash of waves. She was the tomato vine lovingly nestled on the trellis.

"By the Lady of Mercy," she sunk to her knees, cloth swooping around her.

The sky, earth, and sea all chuckled, and in the dark, a shape finally resolved itself. Shadowy, but firm, fleshly and corporeal, he reached out a hand, which she took unthinkingly. The working man's callouses made her gasp slightly. Here was a witch, perhaps. Or an enchanter? This man had the hands of a peasant, and yet made such wonders appear before her eyes. Surely this man was in league with Satan.

The grass under her feet whispered softly to her, as she stood with the shadow man, her hand in his, only the slightest tension pulling between them. The darkness swirled around them again. Warm and black, it pulled her in, suffocating her, all but the tiny channel of air that breathed down the hand holding hers.

A devil or an angel, she had to know. She had to know if she had to rip her hand away from this last passageway of hope. "Who are you?"

At last, the edges of his face moved. She could feel them moving as though they were her own muscles at work. "I am what you have just seen, and much more, my lady."

She thought of the grass and the sky, and his hand, holding hers as though that was all that mattered. "Why?" the cry could not have been weaker. Why must this stranger show her these things? Why must he remove her from all certainty?

Again the shift in face, and this time, he tilted his head into the soft embrace of the night all around them. "I do not know where to begin, my lady. I am sorry. I am very new at this. I have only ever known your mother, in this capacity. Where would you like me to begin?"

The warmth of his voice, like the softness of freshly turned soil, allayed her fears. Not all of them, nor did it totally suffice, but she felt as though he was her friend. She smiled at the dark. "Begin with who you are, be you devil or angel."

"Oh?" she could feel the confusion in his fingers. "I am—how to explain this? I am, yes, your mother, she called me her Antonio. I am of Castille and Aragon. España."

The word is warmth on stones. It is the wide Iberian sky. It is a dance. It is love. It is strong. It is everything that she was not, and even now, she did not understand. Her mind could not grasp his reality. But she can grasp that he is there. Before her. A man who was not harming her, and was not one of the dark prince's consorts.

"Why have you come here?"

The sigh again, and she suddenly stumbled toward him. Those arms shrouded in darkness wrapped tightly around her, and a loving round face rested on her head for a moment. "My lady, your sister is dead. My queen is dying."

She did not understand. He could not explain any better, though he tried. "A queen must know her country. A princess might as well."

"There has been no news. I do not understand. How can you say that my sister is dead?"

She could feel his smile in the dark. "I know. I always know."

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><p><strong>1502<strong>

Roderich was a beautiful man. That was what Spain had hated about him in the first place. Antonio knew part of the visceral reaction to the Imperial country was Ferdinand's influence, poor man. His power had never been great—no man married to a woman as glorious as Isabella could have been great—but the death of his queen should have meant that he could have come from her blaze of glory, as the moon comes from the reflected light of the sun.

Instead, Ferdinand found himself playing second to the husband of his daughter, and Spain found himself looking at Roderich in annoyance.

"Do you know what he does to her?" Antonio growled once more, certain that he had Austria right where he wanted him. Like the new world. Like the Lowland siblings. Like the rest of his empire.

Austria, pale, and neatly clothed, put the Venetian glass to his lips. There was nothing cute about him, but a lot was beautiful, and Antonio _had_ to admit that they had more things in common than he would _like_ to admit. Like the fact that they both thought that there was power in an alliance within their houses. Antonio was young, and he knew he didn't have the experience that Austria did, for all that he was exuberantly powerful. Austria had none of the will or interest to be the power that his nobles demanded of him. There was a hint clinging to Austria that the world had lasted too long. Too many battles, too much war. Roderich was tired, even as the House of Hapsburg wanted to grow, and Austria demanded its right. Antonio could provide that growth, that power, that bolster for a man who had seen all those grief piled years.

Clearing his throat, Austria gazed over the top of his round glasses—an affection displaying his wealth and the craft of his Italian territories. "The same things that a husband does to their wife in marriage, I assume."

"Really? Should I lock _you_ in a closet for days on end? No light. No air. No food."

"You are upset by this?"

Antonio stared. Oh, he was aware that he knew nothing about the world. Why else would he walk from corner to corner? But where had he missed the lesson that it was strange to be upset when a woman needed help?

Roderich placed the wine glass on the table once again. "Really, Antonio, she is just a human."

Antonio felt as though he was crumpling like a used tunic, thrown on the laundress' pile. "But she is unhappy," he managed weakly. "It makes me unhappy. I only have so much happiness to give, and it really helps when people make their own."

Austria shook his head. "Don't get involved. Trust me. It will only hurt in the end."

Spain drooped. "How can you be so cold about things?" he asked.

The dark haired man let an exhale catch behind his teeth. Antonio got the strong impression that he had missed something vital, but he had no idea what. "We have to be, España. In another thirty years they will be dead, and a new group will take the throne, and the same stupidity will happen in a different form."

This made Anontio's face snap into a scowl. If he had been one for noticing things, he would have seen Austria shrink back ever so slightly. "He brings _women_ to their marriage bed. Didn't _you_ say that was sacrosanct?"

Austria had little to say to that. Antonio left once more, not touching or kissing him, which was not what Roderich had expected, and was relieved not to receive. Spain was just a bit too wild for his tastes. Still, he owned all that land.

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><p><strong>1504<strong>

They sat on the floor, not talking as the dark mustiness wrapped around them. She placed her hand against his cheek, and wonder of wonders, felt the earth of Madrid under her fingers. She had done this often, and it still amazed her. España. Spain. Antonio. She did not rule all of Spain, and yet he seemed to assume that this was her right.

"You may make free with it," he murmured, everything she could want in a man. Freedom giving, loving, sweet and pure.

Wanting the feeling of ripe orchards once again, she stroked her fingers through his hair. "You are an angel for giving me this," she murmured, hand withdrawing.

The Iberian mountains caught her fingers, bringing them back to Madrid. "I mean it, my queen. It is all yours. I will let you do whatever you wish."

She smiled sadly in the dark. She had never seen his face clearly. She just knew that it was Madrid. "You are a tempting devil, Antonio. Here I am, and you say if I could stretch out my hand, and say 'it shall be so' you will make it so."

"You are the queen."

"I am a woman. Is not my father acting in my place? Should not my husband succeed him?"

She could tell that he was confused, and conflicted about the statement. He was an angel, sent by God, and human matters were none of his concern. She did not want this indecision. She wanted him to say, once and for all, that he agreed, so she could cast him properly. Clad him in black. Remove the stars from his hair that was at once brown and the trees of orchards. She wanted her secret visitor to laugh, and give her a reason to hate him.

"I—I want you to be my leader."

And in the dark, two beings who broke no taboo, never even in thought, contemplated the fact that they loved each other.

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><p><strong>1520<strong>

Austria grew more beautiful each time Antonio saw him, which was unfair, as his family, his humans, only grew more monstrous. Sitting in the sunset of an elegant garden, with charming Italy running back and forth with dishes of pasta, and bread, Spain nodded over a glass of strong brandy. Austria was frowning.

"Antonio," the older man began, pausing, not knowing how to broach the topic with his spouse. "Have you been—interfering with the politics of your humans?"

Spain laughed a little, tossing his head back, allowing the warmth of alcohol to burn through his body. "Why not? France does it. England does it. Even that foul Mexican involves herself—how else do you think she has survived? Aren't you always telling me to follow the example of my elders?"

Austria considered this. His eyes raked over the laugh, took in the bright intensity of Antonio's skin, his eyes, the white knuckles on the stem of the wine glass. "The people sing the praises of your mad queen."

A deadly fire entered the face opposite, spilling from the toothy smile. Antonio set down his glass. "Your court snickers, and mocks her. They tear with their greedy human hands at _my_ queen. Ripping her to shreds. _My_ people will sing as they like, Hapsburg."

Ancient, grand, Austria allowed for no insubordination. Not even from a husband. He grabbed the hand that fell away from the glass, pouring his will into ink and words, contaminating the ideas that connected them both, while speaking in velvet: "They are _our_ people. If anything, they are _mine_."

Glass caught the brilliant light of the dying sun as it flew through the air. In screams and cries Spain wrenched Austria onto the table. The light was leaving the sky. Darkness swirled over the two of them. Spain breathed heavily, furious, angry. If he could not—Austria tried to force the fingers from his throat.

Something tumbled and crashed. Laws and legalities paused, as the young form of northern Italy trembled, tugging at her skirt. Instead of saying anything, or picking up the overturned silver tureen she turned and ran, tearing through the garden. With a force of will, Roderich tore populous strong hands from his throat, and flowed to stand within the circle of Antonio's arms, staring coolly into strong fires darting through Spain's eyes.

"By right of marriage contract, your land belongs to me, Spain."

"But not the will of the people," Antonio trembled.

Roderich waved this away. "Most humans are merely a rabble. A mob. Do not allow them to control your temper."

Antonio leaned in, his lips brushing Roderich's cheek. Skin on skin. Words and ink in Antonio's skin searing, burning, withering away, flaring into a tumult of voices that raged through the old words and cool parchment that defined the scope and limits of Roderich's fealty. "They are more than we are. And I love them for that. There is nothing that anyone can do, Hapsburg, against this lovely madness."

He turned away, impressive in vital red and sable, the wealth of his land glittering in every movement. Roderich straightened the tight sleeves of his jacket. Northern Italy would pick up the mess once she was found. Antonio's voice lilted through the sunset. "Sorry, Roderich."

The voices ripping at Roderich's skin began to fade into echoes. He peered at his spouse, who half turned, gracing him with a brilliant soiled smile. "I'll be good from now on."

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><p>There you are. I hope that you enjoyed.<p>

MF


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